


just a king and a rusty throne

by crashingmanicwave



Category: Panic! at the Disco
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M, Master/Servant, Royalty, Ryan is a hermit of a lord, and Brendon is his manservant who talks back far too much
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-08
Updated: 2019-10-08
Packaged: 2020-11-27 07:57:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,630
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20944973
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crashingmanicwave/pseuds/crashingmanicwave
Summary: “A figure of authority and wisdom, one who cannot see the road further than the few steps his lantern reveals,” Brendon recited dutifully, then grinned roguishly. “Does that not sound like you? Especially once combined with the literal meaning of ‘hermit’.”





	just a king and a rusty throne

**Author's Note:**

  * For [meiratyn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/meiratyn/gifts).

> This is a birthday gift for a wonderful friend that spiraled out of control and left me with a whole universe on my hands. I fell in love with this relationship I built and I'm honestly considering writing more?
> 
> Anyway, hope you like your gift, Malke :) belatedly as I am posting this

Brendon is beautiful, Ryan thinks, in all the ways that he is not.

He gives his smiles freely, his laughs always boisterous and from the heart.

He can have a room full of people totally wrapped around his littlest finger, so utterly charmed by him that they’d do anything for him, if only in that very moment.

He works hard, fighting and clawing his way to earn his place, eyes set on his goal and never once looking back.

Ryan envies him for these things nearly as much as he loves him for them.

But the latter is a secret he’ll have to hold close to his chest.

**♚♔♚♔♚**

“There’s always a war,” Ryan grumbles, rear end sore from sitting in upright backed chairs all day.

Brendon’s laugh follows him into his chambers, as does the sound of the heavy wooden door closing behind him.

There always is,” he agrees, speaking more plainly than he would in the presence of others.

“I say this with utmost sincerity when I say my heart goes out to the apparently war-burdened villages, but I have yet to see these wartime funds go anywhere else other than into the already bulging  _ fat _ pockets of the nobles I must play nice with. It’s  _ aggravating.” _

“Speak freely, my Lord,” Brendon says with some amusement, and Ryan can’t help but smile at him in turn.

Something about Brendon’s happiness has always been infectious.

“Come now, I know you stand in agreement with me on this. Simply because my father left me such wealth and land behind, I’m required to sit in on these meetings else risk losing everything I own to one of those fat-pocketed old men. Day in, day out. All of these run the same course. My inheritance is spilled blood and they are circling wolves.”

“Wheezing old hunting dogs at best, really.”

An undignified snort escaping him despite himself as he dresses down for the evening, hanging up his sword and then his coat.

Atypical for a man of his status, he supposed, to undress himself for the evening whilst allowing his manservant to stand idly by and chatter, but Ryan was never very typical for a nobleman.

He’d never been comfortable with the hands of others on his person, so he rarely allowed it. He found it much more to his taste to undress and dress himself, leaving other matters and tasks to Brendon when deemed necessary.

“If any of those men were faced with real war, they’d roll over and show their bellies,” Brendon continued. “They’ve never seen real suffering up close. They simply profit off of it from afar.”

Dressed down to a light tunic and slacks for the evening, Ryan sits himself at the edge of his bed with a sigh.

“I know,” he says. “And I’m hardly any better. I struggle to keep my head above water, with all of this. Reclusive lord, hideaway lord. I’m much more suited to hermitude than I am nobility. The Ross House deserves a better head.”

Brendon clicks his tongue, padding over to seat himself near Ryan on the bed.

“Nonsense,” He says firmly. “You’re nothing like them.”

“Your words warm me,” He says, with a wan smile, “But just how am I any different?”

“You  _ do _ care,” Brendon says.

Ryan weighs the words, supposes they’re true enough.

“Simply ‘caring’ feels empty and hollow. I ought to be  _ doing, _ Bren.”

And this is the very thing Ryan has always been most self conscious of, most uncertain of, that he is unworthy of the title thrust upon him by his late father, that he is unfit for nobility, that his very existence tarnishes his House’s name.

There are always wars, and Ryan never does enough when they come, watching them pass by.

“Ry,” Brendon says, echoing the nickname use in a way that always makes the back of Ryan’s neck prickle, “You think I don’t know?”

Ryan has an inkling what Brendon is about to bring up, but simply ducks his head without looking at him, mumbling out, “know what?”

Brendon sighs, exasperated but fond.

“I know you’ve been sending men off to the war-ravaged villages in secret, having them remove their coat of arms and any visible ties to the Ross House. I know you’ve been sending secret packages of food and money. I  _ know, _ Ryan. I know.”

Ryan supposes Brendon would know.

He knows just about every knight and servant, especially those of House Ross. He’s popular, well-liked. Has the sort of face and smile that makes one want to spill their secrets to him.

“Well,” Is all Ryan says, fresh out of words. Embarrassed, mostly, that his tiny acts of supposed chivalry have been pointed out.

“Well?” Brendon echoes. “Does that not make you different from them? Those men wouldn’t offer a drowning man a hand, but you would. You know that if you were found out you’d lose face. But you keep doing it. Because you’re good and right, and all of the things they’re not.”

Ryan rarely knows what to do with compliments, especially ones coming from Brendon.

“I still feel I should be doing more,” he says, finding his bedclothes very, very interesting to look at, “rather than tossing mere crumbs out of fear of revealing myself.”

“It means something to them, Ryan. Whether you see that or not, it does.” Brendon’s hand finds his shoulder, warm through the thin material of his tunic.

Ryan has to bite back the instinctive shudder that threatens to wrack him.

“Take it from a kid from one of those war ravaged villages. It does matter. It  _ does.” _

Brendon hasn’t moved his hand, and Ryan is not about to tell him to, not when he loves it just as much as it torments him.

To live a life in fear of the touch of others, only to crave it from Brendon.

“If you say so,” Ryan says weakly, feeling defeated by Brendon, as he often did.

Willingly defeated.

“I do,” Brendon says, and Ryan can hear a smile in his voice now, so he looks up to see it.

“Such insolence, speaking to your lord like that, isn’t it? Oughtn’t I be telling you to watch your tongue.”

Brendon grins wolfishly at that.

“I suppose,” he says, “But I do feel you rather enjoy when I’m insolent.”

Ryan is momentarily at a loss for words, and has no time to find them as Brendon squeezes his shoulder and rises from the bed.

“I should leave you to get some rest. More meetings tomorrow, I presume? And I have matters to attend to, myself.”

“Ah… yes, I suppose I should.”

Brendon gifts him with another one of his plentiful smiles as he makes for the door.

“Good night, my Lord. Sleep well.”

**♚♔♚♔♚**

“Again.”

“I’m a poor hand at this, Brendon,” Ryan grouses, “And I’ll remain poor no matter how many times we go.”

Brendon just smiles at him, and right now, for the first time, Ryan hates that smile a little.

“Again,” He repeats, far too cheery.

Ryan sighs, gives in, grumbles as he retrieves his fallen training sword.

Not enough to kill a man, but fairly hefty and made of solid wood. Used by rookie knights to train, master the art of swordplay.

Ryan felt far beneath even a rookie knight, much like a man swinging around a heavy, well-shaped stick, and rather terribly, at that.

Brendon is no knight, but he has enough skill with swordplay to become one.

Ryan had once asked him why he took upon the duties of a manservant when he could just as well have been a knight, and Brendon had shrugged, avoiding looking at Ryan.

_ “If I hadn’t, who else would take care of you?” _

Ryan hadn’t known what to say to that, and Brendon had gone on, adding that if anyone were to threaten his lord with bodily harm, well, he could defend him well enough.

Unbeknownst to Ryan, Brendon had kept up with swordplay, training with the knights in his free time.

His movements were quick and graceful, Ryan sometimes finding himself far too easily distracted by the gleam of sweat on bare skin and the bulge of muscles as he gripped the hilt of a sword or settled into a stance.

Ryan felt like a sodden mess by contrast, sweaty hair falling into his eyes and light undershirt clinging to his skin.

“Ready?” Brendon asks.

“As I’ll ever be,” Ryan replies wearily, trying to remember just how to position his grip on the hilt of the sword.

Brendon laughs, dropping his own sword to the ground and striding towards Ryan, who is hardly mentally prepared to have a creature as glorious as he up close.

“Your grip and stance are both completely off,” he says, managing that perfect blend of irritation and fondness only he was capable of. “Come, let me help, silly little Lord.”

Ryan is still unprepared when Brendon comes up behind him, hyper aware of everything in that moment.

The heat of him, the smell of sweat on his skin, dirt and summer air.

Brendon’s hand is on his wrist, touch slow and careful as he often is with Ryan, as though he were a horse prone to being spooked.

“Like this,” he says, voice low and soft and in his ear, and Ryan has to bite back the spike of want and arousal through him so  _ strong _ it nearly makes him curl in on himself.

Nothing happens other than Brendon readjusting his grip on the hilt of the sword, helping him reposition his limbs so his stance is tighter.

Brendon’s touch lingers on his wrist a moment too long, as though he’s forgotten himself.

Ryan’s forgotten, too.

The moment is broken when Brendon steps back, retrieving his sword from where he’d dropped it, taking a deep breath, Ryan watching his chest expand with it.

“Let’s go again,” He says, voice much the same as before. If he were at all affected by that lingering moment between them, he doesn’t show it.

“Ready,” Ryan says.

He can pretend, too.

**♚♔♚♔♚**

“Kiss me.”

Brendon doesn’t meet his gaze, and Ryan hates it, hates when he can’t read the expressions he wears.

So often he has his heart on his sleeve, that Ryan feels robbed when he cannot tell just what is going through Brendon’s head.

“I wouldn’t dare dream of it, my lord.”

His tone is dull, hollow.

“I implore you,” Ryan says, trying to keep the edge of longing out of his voice. “Dream of  _ me. _ If nothing else, of that. I know you do. You must.”

Now Brendon looks up at him, and he looks conflicted.

Ryan feels only marginally relieved that he can finally tell what Brendon is feeling.

“I shouldn’t,” Brendon says, but stops there.

“Does it matter?” Ryan asks.

“Status matters,” Brendon says.

Ryan cannot decide if Brendon’s words make him want to laugh or cry, though the only sound that escapes him is a humorless bark of laughter.

“Ryan,” Brendon says, “You  _ are _ dear to me. I cannot deny that, alright? But acting on any desires more than that is just -”

“Just what?”

“Forbidden.”

“Why does the status quo matter to you so much, suddenly? You’ve always been a rebel, since the day I first met you.”

“Because it would endanger you.”

Ryan momentarily doesn’t know what to say.

Brendon inhales, exhales, presses on.

“Because,” he says, “I do dream of you, you’ve caught me. I cannot look you in the eye and tell lies, I have never been much good at that. I say what I think. I think you’re beautiful, but I think I cannot have you because it will ruin you if people were to know.”

“My reputation means little.”

“To you, maybe. But to others? You’re a Lord who cares for the people. Those are rare. The stories and rumors alone would be enough to tarnish your reputation.”

“Which is hardly gleaming to start with.”   
  
Brendon echoes Ryan’s humorless laugh from earlier.

“What, the hermit lord who fears the touch of others? The rumors and superstitions that your birth is what killed your mother, drove your father to drink himself to his own grave?”   
  
Brendon’s words sharp as thorns, and Ryan flinches at the sting.

“Those mean nothing, Ryan. Empty gossip. Compared with the real, actual good you’ve done, senseless rumors mean nothing. Baseless, all of it. But were you and I to become something more than what we are?” He pauses to take a breath, cast his gaze to Ryan’s feet. “Those rumors would hardly be baseless.”

Ryan takes a step towards him, and Brendon looks back up.

“Even if I want to, I cannot.”

Ryan takes a shuddering breath, everything in him yearning for Brendon,  _ painfully _ so. His words are true and Ryan knows it, but he hates it with everything in him.

“If mere rumors undo me, then what sort of Lord am I?”

Brendon doesn’t respond.

Ryan takes another step.

“Were there to be rumors about you and I, I’d be nothing short of proud. I am not ashamed of you, Brendon, and never would I be. No matter whom I choose to kiss or bed, it is not the business of gossipers. Nor does it change what I am willing to do to help others. Can we not have it both ways, Bren?” Ryan asks, voice soft.

“You really are,” Brendon says, “Nothing if not stubborn.”

They are close enough now that Ryan can see the scar running through Brendon’s eyebrow, the varying shades of brown in his irises, the curl of thick eyelashes, fine smattering of freckles on his nose, all imperceptible from afar.

“I know,” Ryan says.

This draws a little laugh from Brendon, and Ryan quirks a grin in turn.

“Kiss me, Bren. I want you to kiss me the way you’ve dreamed of me.”

And Brendon’s gaze locks on to his.

No other arguments seem forthcoming, and Brendon seems to come to a sort of decision, the set of his shoulders firm.

“I think I will,” Brendon says after a moment, stepping past that tiny threshold of space that remained between their bodies to tilt his head up and allow their lips to meet.

It’s brief, at first, a chaste brush of lips but Ryan loves it anyway, would love anything were it given to him freely by Brendon.

Funny that a man fearful of touch as he was would come to crave it so from this one man.

They kiss, slow and sweet and everything Ryan has longed for since he came to adore Brendon this much. Brendon fits a hand over the back of his neck, thumb massaging the side of it, pressing against tendons, and Ryan nearly melts into his touch.

Pliable as molten metal, eager to be shaped into whatever form Brendon saw fit.

“You’re always so tense,” Brendon exhales against his lips, words barely above a breath. “I want to ease your tension.”

Ryan doesn’t mind that idea, though he doesn’t manage to get the words out before Brendon is kissing him again, lips parting against his and Ryan follows suit, knowing little but wanting much.

The slide of a tongue against his own catches him off guard for but a moment, and he threads his fingers through the thick locks of Brendon’s hair and mirrors his actions, drawing a sound nearly a groan from Brendon, one he’d never heard before.

One that had him wanting.

He  _ burned _ for him.

He  _ would _ burn for him, for this, but hardly cared.

Their chests pressed flush together, one of Brendon’s arms winding around his waist so that they were closer still,  _ impossibly _ close, and Ryan only wanted more and more.

Filled with a lustful greed for the man that held him in his arms, a pit of glowing embers easily stoked into a roaring flame.

Brendon breaks the kiss with a scrape of teeth to his lower lip that very nearly has his knees buckling, were it not for the secure hold Brendon has on his waist.

Ryan feels much like a damsel or a maiden in his inexperience, but Brendon hardly faults him for any of it, kissing his way along Ryan’s jaw and down his neck, drawing a gasp from him.

He nearly stutters out something that might come close to an apology but Brendon shushes him, shaking his head, hair tickling Ryan’s chin.

“Your lack of experience matters little to me. I know the way you’ve lived before you employed me, and it saddens me that you’ve lived so long fearing touch.” His breath is warm against the skin of Ryan’s neck. “I want to make you know just how wonderful a thing the touch of another can be.”

And  _ oh, _ if that isn’t a promise Ryan wants Brendon to deliver on more than anything.

Brendon pulls back with a smile, a softer kiss to Ryan’s lips, brushing the hair out of his face with such careful tenderness that he feels weak all over again.

“If we are to do this,” Brendon continues, a little more serious now, smile gone, “I want to do this slowly and carefully. I don’t want to be a mere fling you tire of -”

Ryan, offended, “I wouldn’t -”

Brendon stops him with a finger over his lip, warm and distracting and successfully halting Ryan’s words.

“I don’t want to be a mere fling you tire of the next day,” He continues, a ghost of a smile on his lips. “I know you likely wouldn’t, but for my sake, let’s take this slowly, alright?”

Ryan exhales, nodding slowly in agreement.

“For the wellness of my heart, I think that to be for the best as well,” He says against Brendon’s finger.

And Brendon laughs at that, the boisterous one Ryan has always adored, forehead against Ryan’s shoulder.

**♚♔♚♔♚**

Sneaking affection when it would escape the notice of others became something of a thrilling pursuit.

Perhaps it was daring, but Ryan was so caught in Brendon’s thrall that it mattered little to him.

He would not be so overt as to kiss Brendon in public, in front of servants and handmaidens and knights, but he was inclined to sneak in smaller shows of affection where possible.

Once gifted with a bouquet of flowers from a young girl in a town they’d passed through on the way to another war meeting, he’d taken one and tucked it behind Brendon’s ear, who had simply given him a look and an arched eyebrow.

“It suits you,” Ryan said, unable to fight the twitching corners of his lips.

He’d dozed off on a carriage ride, once, and awoken with his head on Brendon’s shoulder, who only smiled down at him when he saw him stir, bringing a finger to his lips to indicate silence.

Ryan had only tucked his smile against the crook of Brendn’s neck in turn, not about to fall back asleep, but refusing to move until they’d arrived at their destination.

Behind closed doors, Ryan staked his claim on Brendon, glued to his side, truly hooked on his touch, the feeling of his lips against his own.

Brendon always so careful and patient, never pushing too far, cautious of any of Ryan’s boundaries.

He felt unworthy, nonetheless.

Ryan thought that perhaps each of his tiny good deeds had added up for him to deserve a prize in the form of something as beautiful and magnificent as Brendon.

Brendon had laughed when told this, brushing Ryan’s hair out of his eyes with warm fingertips.

“You’ve never done anything to deserve me,” he said. “You’ve always  _ had _ me.”

“Oh,” Ryan had said, simply for lack of better words to say in response, and buried his face into Brendon’s chest so that he wouldn’t have to dwell on those words further.

He could feel Brendon’s laugh rumble in his chest, his breath ruffling his hair before he kissed the top of his head.

“Silly little Lord,” He said.

**♚♔♚♔♚**

“Must you go?”

“You know I must.”

“I may know it,” Ryan said, “But I am not required to like it.”

Brendon sighed, brushing fingertips over Ryan’s cheek with a sad smile that made his heart ache something terrible.

“I suppose that is fair enough.”

War always crept over the horizon, but it seemed, never quite close enough to actually touch them. Never right at their doorstep, never so near the scent of blood and ash carried thick on the wind.

Never so near that Brendon would have to be snatched away from him by the talons of Aries himself.

Ryan brought Brendon’s hand to his lips to kiss, simply so he wasn’t forced to formulate a response, pushing words past the painful lump in his throat.

“I will return,” Brendon said, as much conviction in his voice as he always had, a manner of speaking that made Ryan want to trust in everything he said. “I will return to you,” He added, softer.

Ryan’s inhale felt painful.

“I can only hope with everything in me for that to be true,” Ryan whispered, afraid he may start weeping if he raised his voice any further.

Brendon stepped closer to him, wrapping arms tightly around him in a fierce embrace

It was only then Ryan could feel the miniscule shudders running through him.

Brendon may have fled a war-torn village as a boy, but as a man, he’d never truly fought in a war. Never spilled as much blood with his own two hands.

Ryan carded fingers through Brendon’s hair, fingernails scratching along his scalp in a gesture he found soothing, when Brendon did it to him.

“I have to believe in that,” Brendon said, voice muffled against Ryan’s tunic. “I have to believe that I’ll return to you, else I may not be able to set a foot outside these chambers.”

The most Brendon-like and roundabout way he could admit he was afraid.

“I would hardly be opposed to you not leaving,” Ryan commented, if only for a distraction from the weight of the moment.

Brendon’s answering laugh was weak and half hearted at best.

“It will never be soon enough that I return to your side,” Brendon said, his gaze catching Ryan’s now, fingers on his jaw, leaning in for a kiss Ryan gladly gave.

“Never,” Ryan breathed out against Brendon’s lips.

**♚♔♚♔♚**

The Brendon that was returned to him was filthy and bloodsoaked, but mostly whole all the same.

Ryan hadn’t cared for the dirt and the blood, wrapping Brendon up in a fierce embrace the moment they were alone enough it was safe to do so, and Brendon returned it just as fiercely.

“I’ve missed you so,” Ryan had confessed, the tears he hadn’t allowed to fall before Brendon left now flowing more freely.

Unbefitting of a Lord, but in Brendon’s presence, he was allowed this small weakness.

“And I, you,” Brendon said, his own voice thick, “more than you could ever know.”

They stayed like that for a moment, wrapped around one another, Ryan breathing in Brendon’s scent which was still  _ there, _ buried as it was beneath blood and dirt and sweat.

The campaign had not been very lengthy; it had ended cut cleanly in half due to surrender on the part of the enemy troops.

The battle resolved, though there would be more.

There were always more.

“Come,” Ryan said, eventually, “Let’s get you bathed and changed out of those clothes.”

Brendon made an assenting noise, though he didn’t move right away.

“I’ve gotten you rather filthy,” Brendon commented as he released Ryan from his embrace, holding him out at arms length.

Ryan glancing down at himself, his front streaked with grime.

“I suppose you have,” He agreed.

“In which case,” Brendon said, the expression on his face for once unreadable, “Why don’t we bathe together?”

Ryan knew not how to respond at first, but he did know Brendon’s words sent a spike of longing through him, longing for things he knew not how to put names to.

There were hundreds of thousands of ways in which this was inappropriate, but Ryan hardly found it in himself to care.

He received few visitors to this wing of his abode this time of evening, and he was hardly a Hermit Lord for no reason.

They would be uninterrupted.

“Very well,” Ryan said, and Brendon even had a flicker of a smile to offer him in turn.

Ryan had his own personal baths, simply due to his nature as reclusive and fearful of touch. He preferred bathing by himself, with no servants to assist him.

Even Brendon usually stood to the side with a towel and did nothing more for him.

Now, though, would be different.

Now, Ryan wanted to touch Brendon, and be touched in turn, all the things he’d been without for long enough that he craved them.

He helped Brendon strip of his dirty garments, clicking his tongue as he insisted these be thrown out, despite Brendon’s weak protests.

“This is rather backwards, a Lord helping his manservant undress.”

“We have always been rather backwards, Bren.”

A smile and a genuine laugh from Brendon at that.

“That,” he said, “I cannot deny.”

“Of course you cannot,” Ryan said simply, helping Brendon step out of his slacks before tossing them aside with an expression of disgust.

“What if,” Brendon said, toying with the waistband of his own undergarments, “We were to do things forwards for once?”   
  
“What do you mean?”

“Would I be allowed the honor,” He said, stepping closer to Ryan, fingers tripping over the hem of his tunic, “Of undressing you, my Lord?”

Ryan’s breath caught in his throat, and he knew not what to say.

Brendon seemed to take his lack of response as rejection and dropped his hands.

“I would understand if not,” he said, casting his gaze downwards. “Forgive me for being presumptuous, I -”

“No, it’s not,” Ryan breathed, voice a little hoarse. “It’s not. Presumptuous of you. I. Yes. Yes, I would like you to undress me.”

Brendon’s gaze was on his again, and Ryan felt frozen in place.

“If you’re certain?” He asked softly.

Ryan had never allowed anyone else to undress him before.

“I am,” Ryan said, proud of the way his voice hardly quavered at all.

“Alright,” Brendon breathed, hands on Ryan’s tunic again.

Ryan had never before realized how intimate the act of undressing another could be. He hadn’t thought much of it at all whilst undressing Brendon; mostly focused on the tattered, filthy clothes and getting them off of his manservant.

He had not at all focused on the intimacy of it.

When Brendon did it to him, it was all he could think of.

The brush of fingers to skin as Brendon unbuttoned his shirt, pushed it from his shoulders, let it slip down his arms before fluttering to the floor.

Brendon, unlike Ryan, was certainly savoring this moment, his fingertips brushing along Ryan’s collarbone in a way that made him visibly shudder.

“By the gods, you’re the most beautiful thing I’ve seen,” he said, voice filled with nothing but reverence. No uncertainty, no disgust, no comments at how lacking Ryan’s thin frame was.

“That cannot possibly be true,” Ryan managed.

“It is,” Brendon insisted, his hands resting on Ryan’s bare waist, the heat of his palms searing against bare skin. “There are no truer words.”

Ryan let out a shaky sigh.

“Are you going to continue to compose poetry about my appearance, or are you going to finish your task like a good manservant?”

His tone came out far more petulant than he’d wanted, and Brendon grinned.

“Profuse apologies, my Lord.”

Gone were Ryan’s slacks, next, Brendon’s touch lingering over his bare legs in such a reverent way, as though he truly were as enamored with Ryan’s appearance as he claimed.

Now, left only the act of bathing itself.

Ryan could hardly bare to look back at Brendon, ridding himself of his own undergarments as he made for the still steaming bathwater, amazed it remained warm in the time it had taken them.

He could hear Brendon behind him, rustle of fabric as he likely removed his own undergarments, and slid into the water alongside Ryan with a sigh that trailed into a groan.

“I have missed bathing like this,” Brendon said, head tipped back against the side of the bath, eyes closed.

His expression one of pure bliss.

Ryan supposed the warm water did feel rather nice, but he could hardly focus on it with the nude form of Brendon so close and within reach.

Distracted by him, as it were.

As he so often was.

Funny, that Brendon claimed Ryan to be the beautiful one, when Ryan knew it was Brendon that was beautiful.

Radiant, a sight to behold.

Even like this, streaked in grime, the lights played with shadows over the sloping angle of his handsome profile; dark eyelashes stark against pale skin and damp hair sticking to his neck and forehead.

Thoughtless gesture, brushing some of it back, just so he could see Brendon’s face better.

Brendon opened his eyes to look at him, the softest quirk of a smile about his lips.

They met somewhere in the middle; water sloshing over the sides of the tub as they kissed, Brendon threading wet fingers through Ryan’s hair as Ryan wrapped arms around Brendon’s neck.

Their mouths each hungry for the other’s, trading kisses hotter than the bathwater, bodies close, closer, slick with water.

Bathing wasn’t much on Ryan’s mind at all, not now.

“Can I touch you?” Brendon broke the kiss to ask, warm breath against Ryan’s lips making him shiver.

“Aren’t you?”

“Not where I want to be most,” He said, voice thick with implication.

“Ah,” Ryan said, trying to collect his thoughts, scattered like windblown dandelion seeds.

“Yes? No?” Brendon’s fingers rested on his hip, a weighty touch, one Ryan couldn’t help but be hyper aware of.

“Yes,” Ryan replied, and Brendon wasted no time.

Warm, wet hand wrapping around his already half-hard shaft, no hesitation at all in Brendon’s touch. 

It was all Ryan could do to hold fast to Brendon, pathetic, whimpering noises tearing from his throat, the likes of which he tried to swallow down and silence.

Brendon’s lips found the place on his neck where his pulse fluttered, sucking at the skin there, a scrape of teeth that made Ryan’s breath catch, hips bucking helplessly into Brendon’s hand.

“Go on, let yourself go,” He said softly, lips kissing a trail along Ryan’s jaw, each pump of his hand steady and sure, Ryan hard and throbbing beneath his touch. “Let yourself  _ feel _ it.”

Ryan was the Lord, and yet, he could do little other than obey his manservant, his words holding such  _ sway _ over them, calloused hand expert on his cock.

If the time he lasted was pathetically short, well, Brendon didn’t fault him for it.

His cry as he climaxed reverberated off the walls of his private baths, so much  _ louder _ than it should have been, somehow.

Brendon kissed him gently as he came down from it, hand still working him through trembling aftershocks.

The first time he’d been touched like this, Ryan realized hazily.

And by the one and only man he’d ever want to touch him again.

“Bren,” Ryan said, as though it were the only word he was capable of forming.

Brendon kissed his cheek, wordless, drawing Ryan in close.

“If you don’t mind,” He murmured, fingers encircling Ryan’s wrist, “Hearing your voice like that has put me rather close already. I won’t last much longer.”

And, Ryan supposed, the only man  _ he’d _ ever want to touch.

**♚♔♚♔♚**

“This,” Brendon said, holding it to the light, “Is your card.”

Ryan took it from Brendon, arching an eyebrow as he read the words beneath the portrait, one of a cloaked elderly man with a staff and a lantern.

“Most amusing,” Ryan said flatly, placing it back facedown on the table between them. “Yes, I am a hermit, as has been well established.”

Brendon laughed, mirth in his eyes as he flipped the card back over.

“Not just _a_ _hermit_,” Brendon continued, “But _The Hermit,_ Ry.”

“I’m not certain I understand the difference,” Ryan huffed, indignant.

“The meaning of the cards carry great importance,” Brendon intoned, as though repeating words someone else had told him, “Or so says the soothsayer I purchased this deck from.”

“Ah,” Ryan said, “Superstition, then?”

“Not quite,” Brendon said, humming as he examined The Hermit card. “I suppose the deck itself was something of an impulsive purchase, but something about it spoke to me. And the meaning of this card in particular, I feel it  _ is _ you.”

“How is that?”

“A figure of authority and wisdom, one who cannot see the road further than the few steps his lantern reveals,” Brendon recited dutifully, then grinned roguishly. “Does that not sound like you? Especially once combined with the literal meaning of ‘hermit’.”

“Do you have a card for yourself, then?”   
  
“Of course,” Brendon said, sifting through the deck, setting glossy cards aside as he searched for the one that was supposedly his own.

He made a little noise of triumph once he had, placing it on the table between them.

Ryan peered over it to read.

“Page of Wands?”

“Indeed.”

“What does this one mean?” Ryan asked, pulling it a little closer to him to examine the illustration, one of a young man wearing a fancifully emblazoned tunic, carrying a tall staff with leaves sprouting from the tip.

“Inspiration, ambition, potential. Seeking new heights.”

A quiet huff.

“Fitting.”

“I thought so as well.”

Laid side by side on the table between them, Ryan brushed their neatly cut edges with gentle fingertips.

“What a pair,” Ryan mused.

Brendon grinned at that.


End file.
